


And So the Stars Sleep

by JunebugSong



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Craig of the Dead, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Only rated m to be safe, Suicide, Violence, lots and lots of glow in the dark stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-09 02:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13471407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunebugSong/pseuds/JunebugSong
Summary: "...ngh, I'd never let one get you, Craig," he declared, and even though his voice seemed so fragile, the strength of his intention to keep that promise glimmered through. "I'd die for you a thousand times over.""I know," Craig said, and no amount of feigning indifference could hide the heartbreak in his voice.--Some promises can be hard to keep.





	And So the Stars Sleep

_ He still remembered the first time he’d stayed the night, back before the world went to hell. _

_ The restless and frantic flickers of his eyes, glancing between every surface he could distinguish in the shadows, seemed like a powerful repellent against any hope he had to sleep. Every time fatigue made his eyelids feel heavy, every time he figured he was only seconds away from yielding to his own exhaustion, some little voice chimed from the corner of it all— _

_ “Did you check to see if there was anything in the closet?” _

_ “Did you close the curtains to keep out the eyes outside?” _

_ “Did you remember to triple-check the vent openings?” _

_ —his own personal choir of anxiety chiming away in an extended, erratic melody, tiny and raspy whispers reminding him to patrol, to ascertain, to be absolutely and totally  _ sure _ about any doubts he might have. You never knew what could enter a house from some secret passage in the closet, or just who might be creeping alongside the windows outside and trying to watch you from the outside. You never knew if something you’d leisurely discarded had obscured one of the vents and if it would cause a fire and if it would be all your fault or if you’d even survive in the first place or if you’d just watch your entire world crumble to ash all around you before it took you down too— _

_ He felt his fingers instinctively curl together, just one part of him automatically locking into hiding. It was a silent, instinctive reminder to  _ breathe _ , to shut down the uncertainties that multiplied like rabbits in his brain before it all got out of control. That’s what he was always told, as if it was that easy to banish a thousand years’ worth of paranoia from a ten-year-old mind. He wished it was that easy. _

_ Tweek’s eyes, crescents of insomnia burrowing beneath wide-open lids, frantically wandered the room once more, overly aware of every little detail of that surprisingly clean room: the creased and uneven posters strung from the walls, decked out in the NASA logo or constellations or movies from years before either boy even existed, the untouched textbooks abandoned on the wooden desk’s surface. Every crevice in the wooden composition, every wrinkle of paint in the white ceiling, every dog-eared page of every book haphazardly organized on a low-set shelf— it all seemed so overly prominent.  _

_ They were just little things that didn’t matter much at a glance, but added their own aura to the room. If they weren’t there, nothing else would be the same. They were little windows into who Craig was as a person; little things that reminded him that he wasn't in his own home, where the only thing that made him feel safe in a prison of coffee beans and tiny amber containers was the faint silhouette of his boxing gloves against the closet door. _

_ That alone should have helped him find peace, but as usual, “should” didn't match up with reality. _

_ Even though he'd tried to be motionless and quiet, he knew he'd failed when he felt the sheets rustle around him and fatigue-burdened fingertips search for his hand in the dark, gingerly settling on his knuckles. Angling his body to the side, Tweek locked gazes with a pair of lethargic blue eyes, fighting carefully to stay open.  _

_ “Dude,” that monotonous voice had softly sounded, rounding off a single syllable with an implacable degree of gentility. Craig always tried so hard to tone down that natural snarkiness that carried in his voice, just one of a thousand ways he tried to smooth out Tweek’s perpetually frayed nerves. Even then, as kids, he’d understood and made an effort in a way people seldom ever did, and something about the awkwardness lilting in still seemed a little calming. “It’s, like, two in the morning. What’s wrong?” _

_ Even his questions sounded like statements, sometimes— his voice never lifting on the last word, phrasing every word like the last. There was something kind of funny about it, really; this phlegmatic, never-fazed boy usually so disengaged from the events of the world, together with an amalgamation of frazzled nerves that practically bled caffeine and anxiety. They were a match no one but a couple of overly imaginative fourth-graders could have dreamed of seeing together. _

_ But sometimes, the best things were unbelievable. _

_ “...I can’t sleep. Again, I mean. I never really sleep all that well, it’s really difficult no matter how tired I am,” Tweek said, eyes flicking back between the corners of the room. “It’s not like I get much sleep anyways, uh— g-go back to sleep, I don’t wanna bother you, don’t let me interfere—“ _

_ “Tweek. It’s not like there’s anything important in the morning, so I don’t mind.” The mattress shifted as Craig sat up, reclining against the wall, his hand still lingering over Tweek’s. “So, uh. Anxiety keeping you up?” _

_ “Yea.” Tweek murmured, sliding out of his positioning to mirror Craig’s. He aligned his spine with the wall and pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his free arm over them. He didn’t move his other hand, though. He kept it in place, comfortable with the physical reminder that he was not alone. “Don’t get me wrong or anything! It’s nothing to do with you or your house or anything, I swear! I-I just...I don’t know..? Gah, I know that doesn’t make sense and it sounds ridiculous and I’m sorry—“ _

_ “ _ Tweek _.” Craig’s fingers gingerly slipped into the spaces between Tweek’s own, the flatness of his voice slipping into a careful, restrained tone, a sudden gentility overlaying the fatigue that had been there moments before. “It’s fine, you don’t have to explain anything.” _

_ For a few moments of stillness, the two just sat there— fingers intertwined, surrounded only by the cool air and shadows of night. After a few minutes had slipped away, suddenly, the sheets beneath the two of them crumpled and Tweek realized that Craig was clambering onto the floor. Tweek blinked, and the confusion in his eyes must have registered even through the darkness, because Craig immediately spoke to clear it all up. _

_ “I’ve got something that might help,” he said, slipping the closet door open and shuffling through a few stacks of books. After a moment of blindly searching, Craig produced a thick book with a navy blue cover, a flashlight, and a sheet plastered in little plastic stars, all varying in size. All Tweek could do was raise an eyebrow as his boyfriend set down the book and the sheet, fiddling with the switch of the flashlight until a steady beam cut through those disconcerting shadows.  _

_ As if he knew each page like he knew the layout of his home, Craig flipped through layer upon layer of crisp paper, the warm glow of his flashlight illuminating inky print and simple maps. Curiosity flickering in his face, Tweek leaned in to examine the content of the pages. He quirked an eyebrow as he glanced over the simple images, a blue-and-black background with little white flecks connected together by imaginary lines— constellations. The titles associated with them were scrawled to the side, looming over lengthy passages explaining the stories behind each one. Andromeda, Apus, Aquila, Aries, Auriga— each little arrangement of stars telling a different story, from the bird of paradise to the charioteer. Tweek couldn't help but smile at the light illuminating Craig’s eyes, his unbridled passion for astronomy gleaming even through the darkness. _

_ “My mom bought these for me about a week ago,” Craig said, gesturing to the plastic stars. “They glow in the dark and you're supposed to stick ‘em to the ceiling or the walls. I was going to put them on the ceiling and make Ursa Minor, but none of these things are bright enough to be the North Star. So, uh… what's your favorite out of these?”  _

_ He tapped the book once more, a silent invitation for Tweek to look through the eighty-eight constellations documented within the index. For a few seconds, Tweek skimmed through the pages, paying more attention to the stories embossed on the right hand pages than he did the actual patterns of the stars.  _

_ “Cepheus was a dick.” _

_ “Yea, I don't think I'd want a constellation that stands for a douchebag that sacrificed his daughter to a sea monster hanging over my bed every night.”  _

_ A few more moments of silence passed, severed only by the crinkle of turning pages as Tweek glanced through constellation upon constellation, eyes wandering over chains of stars and analytical passages. Craig held the flashlight steady over the book, not even needing to read along— he had long since memorized the stories behind each little piece of the sky, from the names of the stars composing each constellation to the names of the astronomers who had coined them. _

_ “What’s the Summer Triangle?” Tweek asked, pointing to the end of the passage for Cygnus. “Is it a constellation?” _

_ Craig’s eyes lit up, and he leaned in to flip through the book, muscle memory flicking through to another segment, before he stopped and set his index finger down on a page titled “The Summer Triangle.”  _

_ “It’s an astronomical asterism primarily visible in early June,” he said, speaking clearly from memorization, as if he’d read that same passage a thousand times. In truth, he probably had— Tweek wouldn’t be surprised. “It’s marked by Altair, Deneb, and Vega, the brightest stars in Aquila, Cygnus, and Lyra, and they’re connected through an imaginary triangle.” _

_ “Is...is there a story to that one?” _

_ “Yea, there’s a Japanese legend connected to Altair and Vega— basically, the two stars were lovers but Vega started slacking because she loved Altair too much and that pissed her dad off. So he split them apart with the Milky Way, but Vega was heartbroken, so he let them see each other once every year.” _

_ “What a dick,” Tweek chuckled, laying back and staring at the ceiling. “If someone makes your kid happy, I don’t think cutting that person off and making decisions for them is the answer! Why the fuck do all of these parents in mythology a-and shit hate their kids?!” His voice lifted a little with every word, that trademark burst of wild panic breaching through the idleness that had briefly settled over his voice. _

_ “A lot of people in mythology are dicks.” Craig said, the faintest trace of a snicker looming under his breath. “So are a lot of people we know.” _

_ “Cartman’s a dick.” _

_ “What else is new?” _

_ Tweek smiled, leaning back against the wall and staring up at the ceiling. “Can we put the Summer Triangle on your ceiling?” _

_ “Dude, that’s sad as fuck. Why do you want to put a story about two people who only get to see each other once a year up there?” Craig shot Tweek a look of confusion, lifting up the sheet of plastic stars. “Plus, that’s only three stars— you sure you don’t want something with more?” _

_ “Yea, but...think about it. They get to see each other at all— there’s something pretty sweet about that.” Tweek said, glancing over at his boyfriend. “Wouldn’t it suck if we could only see each other once a year?” _

_ A sudden surge of solemnity, albeit subtle, crossed over Craig’s face— the indifference so trademark to his features melting into a look of muted sorrow. He glanced to the side, evading eye contact, as if meeting eyes with Tweek could unveil all of the thoughts unfolding in his head. _

_ “I don’t think I could live without you,” he said softly, gently squeezing Tweek’s hand. Before the other could say a word, before Tweek could even begin to conjure up a response, Craig spoke again, his voice moving faster than his rationality could ever dream of going. “I know it’s cheesy as fuck and we’re in like, elementary school, but… it’s true. Even if we weren’t...y’know, together like this, I still don’t think my life would be the same if I never met you. It'd be fucking lame to walk into class and not see you, and even if we only started hanging out because you beat the shit out of me and I beat the shit out of you, I still don't regret it. Except for the part where I got you landed in the hospital.” _

_ “I got you landed in the hospital too.” _

_ Craig sighed, clapping his free hand against his face, as if he could bury the embarrassment in his face underneath his fingertips. _

_ “You bring out the best in me.” He mumbled. _

_ For a few seconds, the space between them was filled only by a relentless silence— the kind of quiet you would expect from two kids staying up way later than they should be. It might even have been tranquil if not for the uncertainty clinging to the air.  _

_ After a few seconds, Tweek leaned in, resting his head on Craig’s shoulder, clearing up any distance there. The silence sang on, and yet, the conversation didn’t really need to continue. Any words that might have been necessary were more than well-substituted with interlocked hands and unspoken comfort, the awkwardness quickly evaporating into the steady flow of air conditioning that made up for closed and sealed windows. _

_ Craig gingerly peeled three glow-in-the-dark stars from the sheet full of them, setting it to the side as he unsteadily rose to his feet, the mattress and blankets shifting with the motion. With a measured precision only someone as fond of astronomy as Craig could maintain, he carefully pinned star after star to the creased ceiling, gauging the distance between each one from memory. As soon as each star was in its place, a tiny replication of the Summer Triangle gleamed dimly from above, and Craig triumphantly crouched back down and slipped beneath the sheets. He reassuringly laid one hand over his boyfriend’s, offering one faint and sleepy smile before he caved in to the fatigue that he’d fought off for so long. _

_ Tweek stared up at the new pattern above their heads, eyes flickering between each star pinned up ahead. A faint green glow, almost warm in presence, emanated from each one, casting a timid light on the little world shared only by two. Somehow, just those three stars managed to quell the overwhelming burst of anxiety branching through his veins— the last rains disappearing, leaving only a quiet tangle of clouds behind. _

_ He didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep until he woke up the next morning.  _

_ — _

“Keep your head down!”

Hunched over the motionless remains of what had been a reanimated corpse just a few seconds prior, still trying to pry his axe from its withering skull, Tweek ducked a little lower, waiting for the trademark  _ crack _ of a bullet to come whizzing past and into a mass of rotted brains so he could get back on his feet. Balancing a pair of quiet melee fighters with a  _ very _ loud warrior and a marksman could be a challenge, after all— but they had mostly managed to make it work. Ordering Stan to warn the other three when he was taking aim was a doubtlessly important factor in the entire equation.

As anticipated, only a second passed before the familiar resonance of a bullet shattering air sounded overhead, followed swiftly by the sickening connection of metal and skull. He'd like to say that it didn't faze him, that the sound of death echoing around him had just become part of his life in the wake of the world falling apart, but he couldn't help but wince at the  _ squelch _ of a zombie’s brains splattering from the force and velocity of a well-aimed headshot. 

They were lucky that Stan knew how to handle a shotgun so well.

With a harsh jerk of his arms, Tweek recoiled as he successfully pulled his fire axe from the shattered skull of the undead receiver, shaking away wet blood splatter that had practically turned black within lifeless veins. He straightened his spine and pulled his goggles away from his face, using the newfound clarity to survey the stretch of plains peeling off from the rural road.

Craig’s car loomed over the intersection of grass and concrete, Stan perched on the roof with his father’s shotgun balanced over his knee. His brow furrowed as he fumbled with ammunition, always wanting to keep a full round within his grasp lest an unexpected ambush of the deceased cut through any moments of peace. That was just how Stan was: level and rational. Most of the time, at least: as they all did, he had his moments.

Like any time he, Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman happened to be bored and within the vicinity of one another. That was more of a recipe for chaos than Butters’s childhood alter ego.

...god, did he miss the days when the only battling they’d do was under the comforting charade of costume; when they could hide beneath the names of superheroes and makeshift weapons, where their biggest fights were over a twig Cartman had said could control the rules of their game, or over who could rake in the most “money” for imaginary franchises. What  _ wouldn’t _ he give to slap on his barbarian’s body paint instead of resigning himself to bloodstained cloth, or to take aim with dull arrows instead of the keen arc of his borrowed fire axe? What in the world could ever be enough to reclaim those moments he’d taken for granted?

Tweek sighed, trying to exile thoughts of superheroes and fantasy warriors from his head; he had more glaring concerns to address at the moment.

He turned to focus on the other two members of his group, only looming a couple yards away, finishing off one last zombie that had so readily staggered after the group as they’d pulled over to refuel. That was simply one reason out of a thousand that moving as one group was so advantageous— a more solid defense, a titanium wall in favor of aluminum. An axe and a bat hammered to hell and back with whatever sharp attachments Craig could embellish it with had been paired up with a solid shotgun and a roaring chainsaw— and that combative diversity had more than saved them a hundred times over.

Kyle had just finished hacking into the last member of the undead guests, leaving a messily severed, pale set of arms shriveled and motionless in the scarlet-tinted grass— just another part of his strategy. Dismember so they can’t take you down when you least expect, and  _ then _ finish the job— a task Craig was readily completing as he slammed his baseball bat into rotted brains. 

“That should be all of them,” Kyle said confidently, quickly powering off his weapon of choice and pushing tangerine-hued goggles up over his forehead. There was no wonder why he donned them, either— in comparison to the cascade Kyle had to face whenever he flicked the switch on his chainsaw, the spray of blood Tweek had to deal with whenever he swung his axe was nothing. “We should be able to get back on the road now, right?”

“Yea,” Tweek absently mumbled, already slipping his fire axe back into the straps of his backpack. He always kept it within reach, secure but not unyielding— just in case any of them were blindsided by a zombie or seven. Just in case a withered hand seized one of them by the ankles with the intent to kill gleaming primally in blank eyes, rotting teeth all but devoid of the keenness that could tear thriving layers of skin apart.

Just in case.

“We still have to fill the gas tank, y’know,” came that dry monotone of Craig’s voice, doing little to remedy the awkwardness clinging dutifully to the atmosphere. “We’re not doing shit when the dial’s at E, so unless your idea of ‘getting on the road’ is pushing this thing for a couple hundred miles, you’d better get the gasoline can,  Kyle.”

He always was the realist.

“That’s a given,” Kyle sighed, clearly trying to ignore the remote condescension resonating in flat word after flat word. In truth, he’d probably grown accustomed to the unabashed snark Craig always addressed him with. Ever since the world had gone to hell, the distrust Craig held over Stan and Kyle had only festered. Perhaps it was justified, perhaps not— after all, you never knew what was to come when the names “Marsh” or “Broflovski” were tagged on with the situation.

Sometimes, as Craig so frequently brought up, the surprises manifested in an unplanned trip to Peru to fulfill a prophecy you never wanted a part in in the first place. Tweek could resonate with that bitterness. 

“Here, dude, the thing of gas is in the trunk,” Stan called, leaping from the roof of the car and onto the faded grass. Autumn had long since taken its toll on the earth, a new blossom of color bleeding into crisp leaves, the air growing cold enough that Tweek had already slipped Craig’s spare jacket on in order to ward off the calculated assault of winter’s steady approach. Yellowing grass was simply one way of telling the time— their reminder that it had been months since the dead crept from their graves and decided to take everyone with them.

As Stan and Kyle got to work with refueling the car, lost in their own little world of conversation, Tweek swiveled on his heels and moved toward Craig, who stood mere meters from what remained of a momentary massacre. The other boy seemed so withdrawn and isolated, but as soon as his eyes landed on his boyfriend, an undeniable flicker of light gleamed in otherwise disinterested blue. He didn’t quite smile, at least not through his mouth, but there was that little gleam of warmth that only seemed to appear when the rest of the world was away.

Tweek treasured it. Every little sign of joy, no matter how subtle or well-concealed, that registered in Craig’s sharper features felt so  _ special _ — perhaps because he knew that each one was reserved for him. No one else in the world could light up Craig’s eyes like he could. No one else got to see him smile.

He saved that privilege for Tweek: and no arrangement of words could adequately describe just what that meant to him.

“Hey, babe,” Craig said softly, threading his fingers through Tweek’s as the other extended a hand. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay— f-for the most part,” Tweek replied, resisting the urge to crash against his boyfriend and ignore the zombies, ignore the urgency of their search, ignore the changes, just so they could close themselves away and not have to face every crazy little thing they’d inevitably cross paths with. “Just the usual— I don’t know if I’ll— ngh— ever really get used to actually bashing zombies’ heads in? The Walking Dead makes it look so easy but it’s not at all because skulls aren’t made of  _ butter _ !”

He sighed, closing his hand around Craig’s and showing no sign of letting go. For Tweek, Craig was not only an anchor to reality, his solid and undying reminder that he was not alone and that this wasn’t all just some paranoid misconception of life, but a little bit of light in what had so quickly become a bleak wasteland. To most, Craig Tucker was the very last person anyone would consider “a light,” but Tweek was not “most.” “Most” didn’t get to see the boy who didn’t feel when his steadily-built walls came crashing down into an ocean of debris, yielding only momentarily the vulnerability he fought so hard to shield. 

“I know, babe, they’re not,” Craig said, a faint snort mingling with his words. He’d doubtlessly thought of ambling corpses with faces sculpted from butter, hollow eyes staring out from a mass of melting yellow. “We’ll have to tell Robert Kirkman that when the world goes back to normal.”

“When,” Tweek softly whispered, his voice trailing off. It wasn’t quite a question, and yet, he didn’t speak as if it were an infallible truth. He envied the certainty Craig delivered the word with— the practical guarantee that one day, they’d go back to grumbling over geometry homework and the latest stupid scheme Stan and his friends had landed themselves into and Jimmy’s newfound series of puns. And yet, somehow, it always sounded so much truer leaving Craig’s tongue— like everything would genuinely be okay, like dusk would give way to dawn all over again, and the dead crawling from their coffins would become a thing of the past.

“When,” Craig repeated, squeezing Tweek’s fingers beneath his own. A smile lingered on his lips as he spoke, and it showed no signs of fading. The rest of the world be damned.

Tweek leaned in, resting his head against Craig’s shoulder and taking a few moments to relish in the silence. Quiet was a rare treasure in the wake of the world, the atmosphere typically filled by the crack of bullets or the  _ whir _ of a chainsaw, the feeble groans of zombies that could no longer trust in their own vocal chords. There was just the two of them, and Tweek knew nothing in the world could make him trade it over.

“Hey, car’s gassed up— let’s go,” Stan called as Kyle flipped the gas panel closed. “I really don't want to sleep in the car again, soooo….”

“Coming,” Craig said, and that was when everything seemed to move in slow motion.

He took a single step and immediately crashed to the earth, alarm suddenly wracking his features and panic bristling in his every motion as he noticed the withered hand clasping his ankle and its owner crawling over him with wild, primal eyes, the remains of teeth gnashing and strangled groans echoing from a failing throat. His hands quickly searched for a weapon beyond his reach and he cursed the fact that he hadn't hit this fucking  _ monster _ over the head three times for good measure just to make sure that whatever reanimated a dead sack of interwoven remains died and  _ stayed _ dead—

He didn't have to brace himself for pain, however, because as soon as the zombie was on him, a flurry of green and gold and unholy screeching had flung it to the side. 

Tweek hadn't even bothered to reach for his axe.

Fury had taken up residence in those cool green eyes, replacing the anxious shadows seemingly omnipresent there, and what typically manifested as a malcontent frown had morphed into a wild grimace. Trembling hands grew precise as they pinned down Craig’s would-be assailant, searching for something to finish what was yet to be done, and one reached back for the fire axe that had saved them both time and time again—

And then the whole world went scarlet.

Before he could even think, before he could deconstruct the situation like the rational person he was, he was sprinting over to Tweek’s side, brandishing his bat and crashing it against that zombie’s head over and over and over and  _ over _ , not satisfied until decayed skin was reduced to nothing but blood and shattered bone, motionless in the crimson-sprayed grass. The second he was  _ sure _ it was dead, any signs of life reduced to extinguished sparks in corroded veins, he set his bat down and grabbed Tweek by the shoulders, eyes searching for what he was certain would entail his whole world falling to pieces.

This was the calmest he'd ever seen him— countenance frozen in shock, limbs grossly still, shaking breath suddenly regulated with a newfound steadiness. His eyes were wide and irises small. The whistle of the cold didn't even seem to register with him, as if he'd been locked in time.

His calmness wasn't the only abnormality, though. No— that glory went to the blossom of scarlet marring the base of his neck.

Like a spider lily blooming from his collarbone, the space where the zombie had struck its mark was messy and wild, uneven and grotesque in ways he couldn't even begin to describe. Blood leaked from the wound, staining the sage fabric that should have delayed aggressive teeth by even just a few seconds. The pale skin surrounding his injury was tinted with a sickly green, vivid life yielding to what would become decay.

“Craig,” Tweek said, his voice strained and weak, wrought with worry. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yea,” came the response, and it took all of the effort in his being not to cry right there.

As if he wasn't condemned to an undeserved grave, as if it had only been a brief little scratch, Tweek reached for Craig’s hand and leaned in once more, his head against the other’s oddly unstable shoulder. Everything around him seemed unstable, if he was being honest— all of the colors of his surroundings bleeding together, lineless shapes enveloping the world beyond. The grass beneath his knees seemed like it would fracture and open up to a whole different world at any second, and his only anchor to this one was the set of arms wrapped around him. 

He heard voices echo on, but the words they spoke bore no meaning. They all slipped together, their purpose forgotten, broken. All he could hear was the trademark nasally voice he'd grown to love so much in all their years of knowing one another.

“C’mon, Tweek,” he heard Craig whisper. “It's time to go home.”

\--

_ The first ambush had been the worst. _

_ It had been a few weeks after it all began, a few weeks spent watching the world go by through the slits of boarded windows— but only through the ones on the second floor. Tweek was terrified of tempting fate by leaving open spaces on the most accessible level of his home, and so it became a rule that no one was to uncover the windows beneath the second floor, lest an ambling corpse laid eyes on a flicker of life within.  _

_ A month ago, it would have been him being paranoid. Now? It was him being practical. _

_ In truth, Tweek didn't like going downstairs very often— if he could evade having to, he would without even blinking. All that awaited him when he descended the stairs were memorandums of yesterday, sick little pieces of evidence reinforcing the truth that what had been lost could never truly be restored. Every person who had been robbed of leaving the world peacefully, every minor tradition that marked the day, everything they’d all taken for granted could never be the same. But he supposed that was what happened when the dead roamed the earth. _

_ The day the outbreak began was still fresh in his mind: the frantic sprinting to cover all of the windows, to fill the sinks and bathtubs with water to last for weeks, to close the world away so that it couldn’t creep inside and destroy them. There’d been so much panic as the two of them worked tirelessly to obtain what they needed before the lights slipped away, leaving them in the dark. _

_ Flashlights had become their friends, and Craig had pinned a few glow-in-the-dark stars to the darkest spaces in the house — simultaneously eradicating the sense of dread so prominent within the walls of a place Tweek could never feel truly safe, as well as compensating for the frail slivers of daylight that managed to breach the windows’ covers. For some reason, be it nostalgia or the presence of any light at all, it became easier to walk through abandoned hallways while those little plastic stars glowed, to live within a place he’d grown to reject.  _

_ He and Craig slept in his room, of course. Tweek refused to even open the door to his parents’ bedroom. The last thing he wanted to think of when he was just fighting to survive with the boy he loved so much was his parents.  _

_ Craig had gone in, once, to raid the medicine cabinet— just a few bottles of buspirone and other such commodities, to be used sparingly and exclusively for Tweek’s panic attacks and rougher moments. It was a small comfort, but one nonetheless— knowing that he had a definitive solution at his fingertips. He’d fished for a few basic remedies as well: ibuprofen, Tylenol, and other such simplicities. Again, use would be infrequent and reserved solely for the most glaring occasions— but having it there, on hand, was somehow soothing.  _

_ And still did amber bottles lie forgotten in the pockets of their bags, the best remedy to any ailment found within each other. The monsters inside Tweek’s head seemed quieter when he rested in Craig’s arms, and the icy walls Craig so desperately shielded his heart with melted at just the echo of Tweek’s voice. They were always safe with one another.  _

_ You know, people always seemed so quick to define words they couldn’t truly ever encapsulate with just a few explanations— as if more words could adequately summarize things that the heart knew better than anything. Perhaps that was just how humans were: always in need of definitions and explanations, some semblance of rationality to accentuate things they couldn’t fully grasp. Simple human nature and nothing more. _

_ For Tweek, one of those words he never could understand the definition of was “home”— and he knew it was because his house was anything but. People threw the two words around as if they were synonymous on all scales. He didn’t really have a home until he met Craig, and even then it had taken forever to find it. But he’d known from the first time they held hands that he’d found his long-lost definition, and that he would do anything to defend it. _

_ He’d come awfully close to “anything” when the door came crashing down. _

_ Neither one was sure of what had lured them in, but somewhere around midnight, a rabid scratching at the front door had cut through their tranquil silence, shattering dreams they couldn’t remember into tiny little fragments. Craig had scrambled out of bed first, peering through tightly wrought blinds and suddenly launching into action, Tweek not far behind. They’d traded borrowed pajamas for everyday clothing, slinging bags over their backs and grabbing makeshift weaponry as they slipped downstairs, hoping they could just creep around and evade coming face to face with an army of shambling corpses— _

_ But the hinges had come loose on the door, and a ravenous cluster of undead had poured into what had once been a shelter. Eyes that had long-since glazed over positioned on two flickering sigils of life, and they made it their objective to obliterate them. _

_ Craig immediately swung into action, his baseball bat crashing mercilessly against half-decayed faces, pounding bone and skin into a green and crimson ooze. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t linger for a second, searching for any traces of humanity in distorted faces, praying that anonymity could help him cut them down. He didn’t falter when he found familiarity in those undead faces, memoirs of people he’d passed every day and never approached haunting his every motion. _

_ He didn’t, but Tweek did. _

_ After a moment of hesitation, of panickedly searching for lost life and humanity in faded flesh, he scrambled for the kitchen knife he’d plucked from the holder on the counter. It was, perhaps, an impractical melee weapon, but it was only temporary— one way of keeping himself alive until something better came along.  _

_ He bit his lip and dove inward, strategically going about disarming and destroying their undead company, trying to close his mind and act as if these lifeless corpses hadn’t belonged to neighbors, to passersby, to friends. He just had to tell himself the same thing, repeating the same concept in some wild mantra: _

_ These weren’t people anymore— they were monsters roaming in their corpses. _

_ Just monsters. _

_ Tweek had just managed to kill another one, a second-deceased corpse splaying over his mother’s coffee table, when a familiar series of panicked grunts invaded what had previously been occupied by hollow groans. He immediately swiveled on his feet, turning just in time to see Craig on the floor, his bat too far from his reach— _

_ And his feet moved faster than his mind. _

_ Tweek launched himself at the zombie so uncomfortably close to tearing into his boyfriend, knife brandished and eyes wild with rage. He didn’t even realize he was screeching until he felt his throat burning, like a roaring wildfire had been ignited in his lungs. _

_ His knife came plummeting down again, and again, and again and again and again, refusing to relent until the gurgling in that zombie’s throat was reduced to whispered bubbles, until any motion had completely stilled beneath him. And even as soon as he was sure that this motherfucker was dead, that it could never crawl back to its feet and nearly tear his world apart, the anxious aggression that manifested in short and laborious breath had yet to dissipate. _

_ “Don’t. Touch. My. Craig,” he spat, plunging his knife into the zombie’s rotted brains once more for good measure. The second he knew that there were no more threats, that he and Craig were wholly and truly safe, Tweek crashed against his boyfriend, wrapping freckle-sprinkled arms around the one he’d almost lost. _

_ He didn’t realize he was sobbing, either, until he felt Craig’s thumb guide solemn tears away from his cheeks. Today, it seemed, was not a day of emotional cognizance.  _

_ “Please don’t leave me,” Tweek whispered. _

_ “You know I never would,” Craig said back, and Tweek became blissfully lost in the arms of his home. _

—

It was amazing, and all at once unusual, how loud things could seem if you only took the time to listen. 

Gravel crunched and sparked into the air beneath the weight of hefty tires, a repetitive song of little rocks choosing to fight a losing battle or fly back into heterogenous security. It was slow and rhythmic, something he'd never really taken the time to listen to when he was too busy focusing on the world beyond Craig’s secondhand Equinox, trying to find places to stop for supplies or staying on watch for the walking dead. But now, curled up in the backseat, head in Craig’s lap, every little fragment of his surroundings seemed a thousand times more prominent.

“Kyle, stop driving like my grandma and speed the fuck  _ up _ ,” Craig hissed, his voice unusually venomous. It was strange that Kyle was driving— since it was Craig’s car and he was one of two with a license, he always refused to let anyone else behind the wheel: Kyle and Tweek because they only had their permits, Stan because Craig didn't trust him to not have indulged in some “liquid courage” beforehand. In fact, Tweek wasn't totally sure  _ why _ Craig was in the backseat with him instead of the driver's seat — but he figured it had something to do with the numbness creeping up his skin and the dizziness whirling in his brain.

“But the speed limit is just 20, it's a backroad,” Stan’s voice sounded from the passenger seat.

“Oh yea, I forgot, the fucking  _ zombie cops _ might pull us over. My bad!” Craig huffed, and Tweek didn't know why he was so angry and oddly impatient over something so simple and easy to repair.

“I'm not going slow because of a speed limit, Stan, I'm going slow because these roads are really winding. I don't want to accidentally wreck and ruin our one means of transportation,” Kyle said, and though he tried to conceal the irritation bristling in his voice, he certainly didn't do a good job of it.

“It's called a joke, but okay,” Stan sighed, his dry attempt at humor having fallen short. Tweek couldn't see him, but he could practically envision the sixteen-year-old folding his arms and twisting his countenance up in a frown, his “cool anime scar” shifting with his expression. 

A few moments of awkward silence carried on, filled in only by the sounds of wind whipping around the car as it moved onward, of gravel falling to pieces beneath rubber tires. Kyle didn't move his eyes from the road, and Craig didn't let go of Tweek— a calloused hand secure around bandaid-wrapped fingers, and a second gingerly combing through a wild mane of gold. As comforting as his presence was, as warm as his hands felt, Tweek couldn't shake the relentless, blistering cold that seemed to creep underneath the cloth of a borrowed jacket.

“Kyle,” he said weakly, unaccustomed to just how faint his voice had grown. “Can you turn the AC off? It's...r-really cold.”

And then Craig’s breathing hitched and the car went dead silent.

“Uh, Tweek, the AC isn't—”

Kyle’s voice faltered, suddenly, and Tweek realized it was because Craig was shooting him a death glare to rule all death glares. That unsteady silence made its resurgence, and Tweek felt his boyfriend shift to retrieve one of the blankets they'd stowed away underneath the passenger’s seat. Only a moment passed before he felt cotton being draped around him, a welcome warmth in what had become a world of cold. 

“It's going to be okay,” Craig said, and his voice lost none of the cool confidence and assurance that Tweek practically counted on hearing in his tone. Strong and calm and certain— never hindered by shifting speeds or sudden bouts of anxiety, always delivering the necessary messages with the same intonation. He relied so heavily on that certainty.

“Craig,” he murmured, easing beneath the blanket and further into Craig’s own implacable warmth. “I feel really dizzy.”

“Just rest, honey, just rest.” Craig whispered, before moving in to plant a soft kiss on Tweek’s oddly warm forehead. He didn’t even pause to consider the awkwardness of the open affection in what would constitute as a public location, and for some reason, Tweek didn’t linger on the strangeness. 

Usually, holding hands was the most public the two ever got with their affection— something simple and comfortable, nothing that could ever incite discomfort in either party. Things like kisses and hugs were saved for moments when it was either just the two of them or otherwise within the vicinity of a few friends, and it didn’t take a gifted psychologist to comprehend that Stan and Kyle were not what Craig would call his “friends.”

But that didn’t matter, really. All that mattered was that he had Craig and Craig had him, and that no matter what happened, that fact was absolute.

“We’ve been in the fucking backroads for like, two hours now,” Stan said, obliterating once more the feeble bout of silence. “How the hell have we not found a decent house or whatever yet?”

“It has to do with this thing called ‘luck,’ which we’re apparently fresh out of.” Craig sighed, his eyes flicking over to the windows. The world outside was still and silent, the wind so tame that it may as well not have been there at all. The dim rays of a setting sun gleamed over the few leaves still clinging to their branches, the rest of the world well on its way to sleep. “I wonder why it always seems to drain when you two are around.”

The sardonic edge of his tone was not lost on either boy in the front set of seats, but Kyle was the first to say anything about it. “Dude, I get that a lot of wild shit happens to us, but you can’t blame us for rednecks setting up roads and deciding to not build anything on over two hours’ worth of land. It’s not like every unfortunate thing has to do with us.”

When Craig didn’t respond, Tweek spoke up instead. “We’ll find somewhere eventually? This is probably all just— abandoned farmland, or something, and it just seems like a lot because we’re driving slower and not covering all the ground we could be?” Every sentence he spoke sounded like a question, regardless of if it had been intended as one or not. “At least, uh, I hope that’s it and we haven’t been caught in a time loop or something. Oh god, what kind of effect would a time loop have on  _ zombies _ —“

The escalation of anxiety in his brain suddenly fizzled out when Craig clasped his hand once more, a mountain of gradually worse possibilities disintegrating on the spot. The gesture was a reminder to  _ breathe _ , to stop himself from hyperventilating before the frenzy could begin. That was Craig’s role in one of many coping mechanisms he’d picked up from therapy— serving as the silent notification to let himself breathe. 

He kind of missed therapy, to be honest.

“Just breathe, babe,” Craig said softly, his thumb gingerly tracing circles over Tweek’s knuckles. He took a moment to glance out the window once more, searching for abnormal shapes in the silhouettes of forgotten trees— such as the faint, yet not-too-distant angles of fences stretching partially over the fields. “I see some fences, Kyle— just keep driving. In fact, drive a little faster before it gets dark— if we have to clear a house out, I’d rather not get sneak-attacked by a zombie again—“

He froze, a wreath of panic overlaying his features. He inhaled sharply, swallowing whatever chain of words might have been next to follow, and neither Stan nor Kyle asked him a thing about it. Tweek didn’t have to, either.

He remembered that withered hand clawing at the air, clawing at  _ Craig _ , more than eager to rip apart that fleeting, yet precious moment of peace. He remembered moving without even thinking, his world going white with fury, reaching for his fire axe so he could defend Craig’s life once more—

And the next thing he’d known, there’d been stars dancing over his eyes and fire blazing within his shoulder, a bed of grass beneath him and Craig desperately shaking him, more panic than Tweek had ever seen him express in all their years of knowing one another bleeding through every feature of his face. For once, he remembered thinking, their dynamics had been inverted— but it was anything but funny. 

There was a blank space in between the two events, but Tweek certainly had a hunch regarding what was to fill it.

“...ngh, I’d never let one get you, Craig,” he declared, and even though his voice seemed so fragile, the strength of his intention to keep that promise glimmered through. “I’d die for you a thousand times over.”

“I know,” Craig said, and no amount of feigning indifference could hide the heartbreak in his voice.

—

_ If there was one kind of place Tweek knew he absolutely could not stand, it was hospitals. Hell’s Pass just so happened to be one of the worst. _

_ The grey walls matched with the grey exterior, the monochromatic segments only broken up by the mahogany roof and reinforcements. The dim lighting that bled beneath the closed door, most of which called for replacement lightbulbs, left an intense sense of sickliness about the whole place, which was only amplified by the typical scents and sights one could associate with a hospital. Everything there was dull and somber, from the appearance to the atmosphere— and he honestly couldn’t stand it. _

_ He’d been here before, just once— after an anxiety attack that had blindsided him in the second grade. He didn’t remember much of the actual events that had landed him in there, but he did remember the stupid white lights and the awful, pounding pain that burned beneath carefully applied bandages. He didn’t like it then, and he sure as hell didn’t like it now. _

_ The only difference this time was that he wasn’t alone.  _

_ In truth, though? That didn’t ease Tweek’s nerves; especially when he considered just who the person in the hospital bed a short few paces away was.  _

_ Moonlight and the filtration of light beneath the door outlined his silhouette, from the blue-and-yellow of his trademark chullo hat to the wisps of black hair that peeked out from underneath it. His bronze skin bore uneven patches of purple bruises and scarlet-lined scratches, a few of them already wrapped up and concealed by gauze and bandaids. His eyes were closed and his breathing steady, sleeping tranquilly as if he and Tweek hadn’t been viciously beating the hell out of one another just hours before. _

_ Tweek wished he could be sleeping, too— but it was only one in the morning, and even though his nerves stung and the numbing medication had long since begun to subside, he couldn’t have felt more awake. His physical exhaustion was no match for the frenzy of his mind, and so he simply laid there, staring at the uncomfortably blank ceiling and yearning for the disorder of his bedroom, for the peace he found in forgotten objects and scattered possessions.  _

_ Here, beneath a cryptic, graying ceiling, right in front of a window where he felt like the whole world could see him, he had no way of feeling safe. The voices of those above and around and beneath him and this room all mingled together incomprehensibly, forming masses of words he couldn’t decipher and an overarching bout of sound that forced his eyes open, one filled with the squeaking of wheels and the beeping of monitors and more unfamiliar voices. It was incessant, noises bleeding through what should have been silence, and all he could do to shut it all away was bring his hands up to his ears and curl inward. _

_ He hated noise and he hated the excessive cleanliness and he hated this horrible hospital and its monochrome walls and too-bright lights, and he especially hated himself for winding up here in the first place.  _

_ Tweek had always been the kind of person who relished in solitude. When you were alone, you didn’t have to blame anyone but yourself when things went wrong, and you didn’t have to worry about the panic of trying to reciprocate a conversation. You didn’t have to worry about stupid and crazy schemes that ended up with you getting lost in a dangerous rainforest or abducted by aliens. You didn’t have to worry about pissing off the son of the devil or scary demon ladies, and you especially didn’t have to worry about getting dragged into the wild chains of events that always unfolded whenever Stan Marsh, Kyle Broflovski, Eric Cartman, or Kenny McCormick were around. _

_ So when the question of why the hell he’d given the former two the time of day when they told him that Craig Tucker was picking a fight with him came around, Tweek didn’t have an answer.  _

_ He didn’t know precisely why he’d agreed to fight, but he had, and a few days of panicking and boxing practice later, his knuckles stung from landing punches and the rest of his body ached with bruises (and perhaps a couple of splinters and glass-strewn cuts from crashing into the shop classroom). And then both of them had been gullible enough to rekindle that same fight in their own hospital room, and for some reason the staff hadn’t been smart enough to consider separating them. _

_ It took all of the willpower in Tweek’s being to stop himself from smacking his head against the wall, as if the dull pain could exile his self-loathing or keep his eyes closed. His brain ran rife with possibilities of all the things that could go wrong in Hell’s Pass: of the potential that some vials of medicines might shatter in the floor and coalesce to create some oxygen-robbing fog, or the possibility that someone in the morgue might accidentally mix embalming fluids with Worcestershire sauce again and then trigger another zombie apocalypse, or how it was totally plausible that someone in the hospital staff could silently be planning some insane mass murder plot that they could disguise as an accident.  _

_ People always told him his fears were unfounded, that he was just letting the voices of the monsters in his head grow too loud, but Tweek knew that he was being anything but irrational. The second scenario had happened before. Everyone always said that he made up things like underpants gnomes and shadows that moved of their own volition, but it didn’t stop his eyes from catching them stalking the halls of his home, the one place that should have been his safe place. _

_ No one ever believed him. And then they had the nerve to tell him that it was just his imagination, as if that could quell his anxiety. It never did, because even if it was just his mind constructing something from nothing like they said, that just made his own brain untrustworthy and eliminated yet another place that should have been safe. _

_ All he could do was curl inward, hugging his knees and shifting so he didn’t accidentally displace the IV in his left wrist. His heart thundered in his chest and tears stung the cut across his cheek. He didn’t really know why he was crying, if he was being honest. Maybe it was the agony reverberating through every corner of his body, or the unshakable loneliness that filled the space between him and his garden of anxious thoughts. But none of that mattered. All that did was his capacity to stay quiet and not have to explain a thing. _

_ He must have been louder than he realized, because only a few seconds passed before a certain voice sounded in the room. _

_ “Did I really hit you that hard?” Craig Tucker asked in that same unflinching tone of voice he always spoke with, regardless of the situation. Tweek couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or sarcastic because of that unwavering monotone, and for a second he didn’t want to answer. He could just pretend to be asleep, his incoherent whispered rambling explained well enough by subconscious chattering, and not have to worry about explaining why he was falling apart. _

_ But when he rolled onto his side and his eyes landed on a pair of vaguely concerned blue ones, he knew he didn’t really have much of a choice. _

_ “...n-no, you dick,” Tweek spat, narrowing his eyes and already retreating into defensive mode. He quickly moved to flick the tears away, unable to stop himself from flinching when he put a bit too much pressure on the bruise outshining the dark circles beneath his eyes. “...’s nothing. Did you wake up just so y-you could patronize me?” _

_ All of the animosity twisting Tweek’s expression slipped away when he took notice of the surprise and hurt that flickered in Craig’s eyes. He immediately wanted to kick himself for automatically assuming the worst intentions from the boy he’d regretfully made an enemy of, but it wasn’t like anyone could blame him for defaulting to it. Besides, he still couldn’t tell if that look was one of shock at an unwarranted outburst or surprise because he didn’t expect Tweek to fight back. _

_ “Dude, I wasn’t being sarcastic,” Craig said regardless. “I mean this one hundred percent— are you alright?” _

_ For a moment, all Tweek could do was eye Craig with skepticism, his own doubt blistering powerfully through. But when his search for insincerity proved fruitless, the tension in his shoulders and the defensiveness of his stance dissipated, and he straightened out beneath the flimsy hospital blanket that had twisted with his restlessness.  _

_ “I guess I’m fine,” he said. “Just feeling kind of stupid.” _

_ “Because of Stan and his dumbass friends?”  _

_ “Who else?” _

_ Craig nodded grimly, his expression still unyielding. “They’re assholes. Way more trouble than they’re worth. They can’t go five minutes without throwing themselves into some stupid scheme and then they drag others down with them.”  _

_ “Yeah,” Tweek sighed, moving his hand to pry at the fraying edges of one of his bandages. “I still don’t know why I listened to them, is all. They’re douchebags and I should have known that they were trying to provoke the both of us for their own dumb reasons and I’m still kind of kicking myself for it because I fell for it? Gah, it’s so fucking annoying and now some shit like an apocalypse is gonna happen and then I’ll be stuck in this bed and I’ll  _ die _ —“ _

_ He let out an irritated screech and buried his face in his hands, his fingers slipping in between the canary yellow strands of hair closest at hand and digging inward, as if he was trying to pull it out. God, did he really have to be so stupid? He always had a certain escape route for any given situation, and now all options were greatly hindered by the fact that he couldn’t leave this hospital bed. He’d kick himself if his legs were half as functional as they were supposed to be.  _

_ “I guess we’ll die together, then?” Craig offered, and Tweek hated to admit that he had a point. _

_ “...true,” he responded, and he folded his arms over his chest. “Which is better. Ish.” _

_ An awkward silence bloomed in the night-outlined spaces, the only sound coming from places and people they couldn’t see beyond that room. The next few minutes whistled by in discomfort, neither boy sure of just what to say to fill the void. Looking back on it, Tweek knew it probably would have been easier on both of their parts if they’d just rolled over and slept or pretended to sleep. But fate seemed to prefer a different chain of events. _

_ “What kind of… a-pock-a-lips?” Craig asked suddenly, and there was something kind of endearing about how he fumbled with the word, the way his brows furrowed in a vague sense of frustration, his eyes flickering contemplatively. It was pretty amazing that he even managed to get it right in the first place. _

_ Tweek blinked for a second, as if searching for an answer. “One with… zombies, b-but not your usual kind with the mindless hunting for brains,” he began, his eyes wild. “It’d be some kind of virus, with nature trying to reclaim the earth, so humans practically go extinct because their own habitat is fighting against them.” He seemed proud of all of the vocabulary he’d remembered from their science lessons in Mr. Garrison’s class, always emphasizing those words a little more amidst his sentences. “Everything would overgrow and people wouldn’t have the stuff they need and so most of us would die, mostly because everyone expects zombies to be the kind who hunt for brains and so no one would expect this, and then we wouldn’t be able to fight back...” _

_ Strings of words that formed his rambling trailed off, and that spike of anxiety pierced straight through Tweek’s hummingbird-paced heart. He felt his face heat up with embarrassment. No one ever believed him when it came to all of his theories and certainties. Everyone else just rolled their eyes and ignored him, so why would he expect Craig to be any different? At best, people dismissed it, and at worst they told him he was crazy and stupid and then started being overly cruel— now the only question here was which party Craig fell into. _

_ “You know a lot about zombies,” Craig said, much to Tweek’s surprise. “Everything I know comes from video games. You’d be a good partner if zombies took over the world.” _

_ “R-really?”  _

_ “Yea.” _

_ “...I think you’re the first person to listen to me.” Tweek said, his eyes wide but not out of horror. The faintest traces of a smile pulled at the corners of his lips, a happy sense of disbelief taking over his face. “Most people just tell me that it’s me making things up. But I’m not.” _

_ “That’ll suck for those people if the zombies do strike.” Craig shrugged. “They’ll be the first ones to die. That always happens in horror movies. The people who say it’s not gonna happen end up dying first.” _

_ “I don’t watch a lot of horror movies, but that sounds about right.” Tweek said, and for a few more moments that silence made a resurgence and persisted. That seemed to be a commonality between the two— a boy with too much to say but with too much fear to say it, and another with few words to speak, both of them tangled up in the silence of their own awkwardness. _

_ Honestly, the last thing he’d expected was for Craig to start a conversation with him, let alone listen to the wild fears that always weighed too heavily on his shoulders. He couldn’t quite say that he disliked that fact, though. For once, he wasn’t wholly alone with his anxieties; and words couldn’t adequately summarize just how welcome that was. _

_ “You didn’t really shit-talk Stripe, did you?” Craig asked suddenly, his voice like a knife to the cloud of quiet. He eyed Tweek intently, and though it wasn’t so prominent, something in his face seemed to change— the cold stoicism thawing just slightly. _

_ “Who’s Stripe?” Tweek couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow. _

_ “That’s what I thought.” Craig laughed, but his tone was humorless. “Stripe is my guinea pig.” _

_ “Oh. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who had a guinea pig.” _

_ “My dad bought him for me because my little sister is allergic to dogs. Honestly, I think I like guinea pigs better. They’re smaller and easier to pick up and play with.”  _

_ “Do they bite?” _

_ “Not really. They’re pretty harmless. Another fun thing about guinea pigs,” Craig said, and his face lit up with what counted as a smile. “You could come over sometime and see him, if you want.” _

_ “Oh Jesus, I don’t wanna bother you or anything—“ _

_ “It wouldn’t be bothering. I could invite Clyde and Token too, and we could just chill with Stripe for a while.” _

_ “...a-are you sure, man? I don’t think your friends would like me very much. Everyone thinks I’m a spaz and everything, and I don’t wanna screw with your reputation or whatever…?” Tweek hesitated, his voice stumbling over the words. He could feel that surge of anxiety rekindling itself like a second-lit candle, and even though all he wanted to do was extinguish it, it just kept burning bright. _

_ “I don’t think you’re a spaz,” Craig said back, his sincerity staggering. “Besides. You’re my friend, and that makes you Clyde and Token’s friend by default. Anyone who has a problem with it can talk to my middle finger.” _

_ Tweek laughed at that, the flame of anxiety dimming in comparison to one of pride. Craig had that enviable, yet contagious type of confidence— the kind that was overpowering and unflinching, never showing any signs of caving from other people’s opinions. Even if something did manage to hit a little too hard and sting, you’d never be able to tell. _

_ “I think Stan and his friends did one thing right this time,” he said softly, unable to hold back the smile crossing his lips. “I’m sorry for fucking you up, but we probably would never have spoken otherwise.” _

_ “I’m the one who fucked you up, but sure.” _

_ “Don’t be a dick.” _

_ “Sorry, couldn’t resist.” _

—

“I think this place is clear.” Kyle’s voice sounded, and the declaration of safety couldn’t have been more welcome.

A sea of stars spanned an inky sky, devoid of the lights of airplanes or other false gleams that could so easily be mistaken— simply the little white fragments of light that once grew invisible above light-polluted cities. The moon shone prominently among its garden of celestial light, as if proud to be the most visible product of the night— as if it could understand a concept such as arrogance. The cool mists of early autumn whistled around each figure clustered outside of their newfound shelter, biting cold only amplified by night’s descent.

“Are you sure?” Stan asked, his shotgun still held at the ready in his arms. Even though he spoke with caution, his body language translated as someone eager to practically bust down a door and launch into the first bed he could find. Exhaustion was more than evident in his features— from his heavy eyelids to the faint slump of his shoulders.

“Yea, dude, and it’s a pretty big house, too. It’s got a balcony and everything,” Kyle said, clearly enthused. Of course, anyone in their situation would be— the four of them had been lounging in the car for the past three days, nights awkward and sleepless. Of course, it was hard to sleep in a cramped Equinox in the first place, but this fact was not their only struggle; Tweek’s few moments of sleep were rife with nightmares, Kyle flinched at the slightest of sounds, and Stan never seemed able to stay still in the passenger’s seat, noisily repositioning with every few seconds.

Tweek just nodded, his grip around his fire axe somehow tightening until his knuckles went pale, every pattern in the carved wood identifiable beneath his fingertips. Out of the four of them, he was doubtlessly the most alert— which was  _ probably _ why he’d been asked to stay on outdoor watch with Stan. That, and an axe was a lot quieter than a shotgun, regardless of who was wielding it. Regardless of if the person swinging it around was just barely clinging to consciousness, close to caving into the inferno blazing in his shoulder.

“So what’s the layout?” Stan asked.

“There are five bedrooms— four on the second floor and a guest bedroom or something on the first,” Craig said in response. “One of us should probably take the one downstairs just in case. That way, we have vantage points on both floors.”

Kyle was already digging through the trunk of the car, producing his duffel bag and hauling it over his shoulder. He lingered for a moment, as if contemplating Craig’s suggestion, before he spoke up once more. “Stan and I can probably take the downstairs bedroom, then. You two can take your pick from the ones upstairs, and whoever is on watch can stay on the balcony or take to the windows on the first floor.”

“Works for me,” Stan declared, shouldering his shotgun and rising to his feet.

The next few moments were spent unloading the necessities from the car— a couple of blankets and all of the bags they'd been hauling around since the beginning, as well as each weapon they carried on hand. Tweek only swung his backpack over one shoulder now, though, because the straps did little to alleviate the powerful agony that spanned over the scarlet marks burning within his right shoulder. 

Not one of the other three would let their gazes linger too long on the wound, of course— as if it wasn’t truly real, as if not looking at it could change the fact that their party would be permanently short one member before the night was over. Kyle and Stan didn’t look much at him in the first place, but Craig always kept him within his field of vision, and Tweek did the same for him. He could sense the heartbreak in those blue eyes, a silent prayer for a rewind and the will to keep pretending everything was fine flickering in his irises.

But pretending wasn’t going to undo any of it. 

Tweek had figured out what had gone wrong pretty quickly. He’d spent a few hours delirious and unstable, the world melting into shapeless colors and reality growing fickle, the only thing he knew was absolutely and irrevocably  _ real _ being Craig and the warmth of his arms. 

But when all of that dizziness was gone, when the objects around him didn’t swirl together linelessly, one thing melding into another, he’d been able to figure it out from beneath the shelter of blankets that did little to ward off the coldness creeping into his skin. He’d figured something had gone horribly wrong in between his wild frenzy to protect his boyfriend and falling against the grass, and he knew it all pertained to the pain blooming through his body and the frigidity settling over him. 

And even though he wished for nothing more than it all to just be a product of his paranoia, he knew that the deep tears in his skin mimicked the shape of teeth, like the bite marks he once peppered his arms with when panic attacks hit hard. Only this time, still wet and scarlet blood clung to the scars.

Above all else, Tweek knew what it all entailed. 

Back at the very beginning, when the dead started crawling from their graves and he and Craig had taken shelter in his house, they’d both made a promise— a pact that said that if one died, he didn’t get to leave the earth without the other one right behind him. They’d agreed to ride and die together, to either survive in this world or help to destroy it, but either way, they were going to fulfill their mission together, until the bitter end. Neither one was all too gifted at breaking their promises.

But now, more than ever, Tweek wished that they could make just one exception.

He had no shot at surviving past this night— the decay already settling in over his injury more than guaranteed that. His time of fighting off the dead and struggling to spend one more day alive was over. He wasn’t going to surpass his fate as just one more number to a still growing statistic.

He was going to die, and just as they’d promised, he was supposed to take Craig with him. But the thought of playing any role in the death of the one person he’d do anything to protect made him sick, and that pit of nausea was so much stronger than his drive to keep their pact. 

When the group made their way inside, creeping in between overturned furniture and over the remnants of some other person’s story, Tweek only had one destination in mind. 

His fingers slipped from the spaces between Craig’s, and all he could offer was a reassuring smile when panic immediately sharpened his boyfriend’s already harsh features. A few seconds of wordless conversation passed before Craig begrudgingly continued on his way upstairs, casting a few feeble and uncertain glances back in Tweek’s direction before disappearing into the unseen hallway. 

Navigating the farmhouse wasn’t too difficult, although it was unfamiliar, and neither was seeking out what he needed. A few moments of rummaging through unkempt drawers and shoddily concealed compartments, he eventually found what he’d been hoping to find wrapped up in a washcloth: an old handgun, likely forgotten by the owners. A quick check was enough to determine that there were still a few bullets left inside.

Tweek slipped it into his backpack and darted up the stairs, fingers curling around the handrail to ensure he didn’t cave into his depleting levels of energy and fall down the stairs. Wooden floorboards creaked beneath his boots as he made his way down the hall, pausing every time he moved past a door to check which one Craig had settled in. 

When he wandered into the bedroom at the very end of the hall, the one that led out onto a grandiose balcony that overlooked acre upon acre of overgrown grass, he immediately noticed Craig’s over-the-shoulder bag that had been abandoned next to the bed. He also noted that the door leading out onto the balcony was cracked open just slightly, slivers of moonlight slipping through. Tweek just carefully set his backpack down and walked through the door.

Just as anticipated, sitting near the edge of the balcony, his baseball cap tossed absently to the side and his face dark with solemnity, was Craig. Starlight settled over his silhouette, illuminating all of the worry tensing up his shoulders, and he was leaning against the white-boarded wall with one arm slung over his knees. When Tweek’s footsteps begged his attention, he glanced over and simply nodded, a silent invitation for his boyfriend to join him. Tweek did just that, slipping beneath Craig’s arm and resting his head on his shoulder, their fingers subconsciously interlacing.

They just sat there in the dark of the night, the warmth found in each other enough to make the autumn cold obsolete. Crickets chirped in melodious harmony, their vivacious song a welcome piece of life in a world overrun by the dead. Neither one of them spoke of the ugly wound that would cut their time together short, but it certainly didn’t stop them from thinking about it.

Both of them knew that the top half of their proverbial hourglass was nearly drained of sand. Both of them knew that before the sun rose again, Tweek would cave in to infection and fall still for a short time before reanimation set in, and that Craig wouldn’t be far behind. Both of them knew that this was their last chance to view the stars they’d grown to love so much, and that opportunity wasn’t one that either was going to squander.

“And I thought you could see all the stars well at home,” Craig said suddenly, a sense of awe underlying in his tone. “But there are no streetlights or anything here. Look at how beautiful it all is.” He extended his free arm just beyond him, fingers tracing imaginary lines between the stars looming overhead. A smile tugged at his lips, his worries overwritten by his fascination. “Look. You can still see Capricorn.”

“You were almost a Capricorn, weren’t you?” Tweek asked.

“Yea. Astrology is bullshit when it comes to horoscopes, but I still think it’s cool to associate yourself with a constellation,” Craig replied, shrugging slightly. “I’m an Aquarius. You’re a Leo.”

“That is kind of cool,” Tweek admitted, leaning in a little closer. “Horoscopes always freaked me out, y’know? I don’t like being told how I’m supposed to act or be o-or who I’m supposed to be with, and I  _ especially _ don’t like being told what to expect from a day. It all feels like some huge standard that I can’t possibly live up to and it always made me kind of want to...to cry?”

Craig just nodded and squeezed Tweek’s hand in his. “Not even the stars can tell you what you’re supposed to be. I love you as you are.”

There it was, clear and spoken without any trace of hesitation— the L-word. Neither one of them were all too prone to saying it, opting instead for implications and gestures that conveyed it just as well as words. “Love” was a powerful word, and as perfectly as it encapsulated the relationship between them both, some things were easier shown than spoken. That was how it had always been for them, no need for saying what was already obvious to one another glistening through.

(Preexisting clarity didn’t make it any less special, though.)

Tweek took a moment to lean inward, careful not to strain his injury as he ducked into Craig’s warmth, desperate to erase any bit of space left between them. Craig settled his head atop Tweek’s, pulling him in close and showing no signs of letting go.

“I love you too,” Tweek said softly, his voice a feeble whisper. Every syllable he spoke was shaky, the ice in his veins reducing the entirety of his body to a tundra and shaping a shudder around his voice. “I love you so much and you know I’d take a thousand more bites to the shoulder for you no matter what it means in the end, a-and even though the last thing I wanna do is leave you, if I had to go out any way, I’m glad it was protecting you.”

He curled up against Craig, burying his face in the taller boy’s shoulder and relishing in the feeling of Craig’s hand against his spine, rubbing consoling circles into his back before the tears could even begin to fall. Tweek let out a weak and humorless laugh. The world was spinning, the sky circling above him and the white-painted boards of the balcony floor seeming to fly every which way. Nausea whirled throughout his body, a sharp pain pounding in his head, and no matter how hard he tried to figure out which way was up and which way was down, it all seemed so far beyond his reach.

“Craig,” he whispered. “I’m scared.”

All Craig could offer was his embrace, and all he could do to alleviate the rising anxiety in Tweek’s heart was to hold back his own heartbreak and tears and be as strong as he always was. He swallowed his tentativeness and simply continued to keep Tweek safe in his arms. “...I know. Just...just rest, okay?” He tried to talk as if he had all the answers, as if he could solve the situation with a snap of his fingers, but the words came out choked and shattered.

“I love you,” Tweek repeated. “I love you and I know we made a promise but I’m scared of keeping it.”

“...I'm scared too,” Craig said, and he meant it more than anyone could begin to understand. Admitting it was strange and more than a little staggering— because if there was one thing Craig was especially good at, it was guarding all of his emotions behind wall upon wall of carefully fabricated stoicism. Vulnerability had always equated to weakness in his book, and surpassing that mindset was still a struggle today, but he knew that it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did except for himself and the boy curled up at his side.

“...I’m scared of a lot of things, but the difference between all of those things and this is that I could actually face some of those,” Tweek said sheepishly, an echo of an empty laugh looming beneath the words. “Gnomes and George Lucas and North Korea— I lost sleep over them but I managed to eventually deal with it all. I… I r-really don’t know how to deal with this.”

“I know. I don’t either.”

“...what do you think it’s like to...y’know, to turn?”

“As far as I know, you don’t even have to feel that part. The infection from a bite kills you and then the virus reactivates your body after you’re gone.”

“Heh… I guess Robert Kirkman was onto something.”

“Yea.”

“Do you think he knew?”

“I dunno. It’s a lot more logical than just the bite being enough to turn someone, I guess. Bites would be a really crappy original transmitter— I think it makes more sense for the infection of a bite from rotted teeth to do the work.”

“Yea, I guess that does make more sense.”

“Yea.”

Their voices went quiet, the low orchestra of cricket-song filling the spaces of uncertain silence. 

“...I don’t really want that to happen to me,” Tweek said suddenly. “I don’t want to lose control over who I am and what and end up just prowling the earth to kill everything in sight, and I really don’t want to put Kyle and Stan at risk because they deserve a shot to get back home and find your sister and Clyde and Jimmy and Token and the people they care about.”

Albeit carefully, he rose unsteadily to his feet, ducking out from underneath Craig’s arm and  almost caving in to his own dizziness and instability until his hand landed on the banister for support. He took a moment to let the spinning surfaces of the world stabilize before he answered Craig’s confused expression with the most reassurance he could muster up. His fingertips closed around the doorknob and he slipped back inside, rushing over to his backpack and removing the handgun. When he turned around, his eyes settled on the shadowed silhouette of his boyfriend, who still looked so incredibly lost.

“I don’t have a choice between living and dying,” he said. He lifted the gun with all of the caution one would expect, his eyes wandering over the aged metal and tiny details that composed it. He weakly and insincerely smiled before straightening to meet Craig’s increasingly concerned gaze. “But I do have a choice of how.”

The only response he received was Craig crashing against him, jacket-covered arms pulling him in and not letting go. Everything still spiraled, not a single object staying still, the floor rocking like a boat in wild waters and the ceiling closing in and darting away in a claustrophobic cycle.

The next thing he knew, his legs stopped working and he was no longer standing of his own volition, the only thing preventing him from collapsing on the floor being Craig. His hands trembled relentlessly and he had to set the handgun on the nightstand to ensure he didn’t drop it and accidentally trigger it somehow, or to ascertain that one shaking finger didn’t accidentally pull the trigger. It was unlikely, of course, but unlikely still meant there was a chance it could happen, and that wasn’t a risk Tweek wanted to take. 

“Are you okay?” came Craig’s hushed question, and no matter how hard he tried to conceal it, Tweek could still hear the concern in his voice.

“Nothing’s staying in place,” Tweek mumbled. “...’s cold. Really cold. But it’s also hot...doesn’t make any sense… it should cancel out, right..?”

He could feel Craig shifting slightly and then the comfort of the mattress beneath his back, the ceiling moving right back into focus above him. There was fire in his forehead and ice in his veins, the wisps of night air flowing in from the door and the warmth of the blankets doing little to alleviate either discomfort. For once in his life, nothing around him seemed prominent enough to panic over, his anxiety finally quieted in the crevices of his mind. 

Everything spun. He couldn’t trust his eyes anymore, because the world itself was shifting, instability rewriting almost every part of his surroundings. All he could trust was what he could feel.

The hummingbird in his chest had quieted, its wings no longer thundering powerfully within its cage of bones, reduced only to a few weak flaps broken up by gaps of motionlessness. Numbness crept up his still-shaking fingertips and his ankles, and all of the spaces yet to cave in to the numb feeling either burned or froze with unseen fire and ice. He could feel Craig’s hand in his, though— calloused fingers in between his piano-thin ones, keeping him anchored to the scraps of reality that remained present.

“What constellation were we on, Craig?” He asked weakly.

“Cygnus. Your favorite.”

“It’s because I like birds.”

“I know.”

“Which number is it again?”

“It’s thirty-one.”

“Mhm. We made it pretty far.”

Tweek was certain he heard Craig whisper something that sounded like “but not far enough,” but he didn’t know if he could trust his ears anymore anyway.

“...remember when we were little kids, and we first starting doing this?”

“Yea.”

“The first one we put on your ceiling wasn’t even a constellation… what did you say it was called again?”

“An astronomical asterism.”

“Yea, that.”

“I remember.”

“We started hanging them all over each other’s houses so we had little pieces of each other whenever we were apart.”

“Yea. Patricia got pissed whenever she found them on the bathroom mirror.”

“My dad always asked me why I kept so many in the back room at the store. I never really did tell him why, but I think that was because I figured it’d hurt his feelings if I said it was because thinking of you got me through all of my stupid work shifts.”

“We let Clyde keep a few stars after his mom died.”

“Yea. I think it reminded him that he always had us and Token and Jimmy,” Tweek said, unable to stop the nostalgic smile that formed on his face. “...I miss them.”

“I do too.”

Tweek just took the moment to relish in Craig holding his hand, trying his best to ignore how heavy his eyelids were growing, how tempting it was to just go ahead and fall asleep for the final time. He could practically feel death breathing down his neck, its disguise of sleep paper-thin, begging him to just let go.

“...are you gonna put the stars up?” Tweek whispered, sitting up in a last-ditch effort to fight off the fatigue weighing down on him.

“If you want me to,” Craig answered, and a nod was all he needed before he fished a packet of stars from his bag. “You still wanna stick with Cygnus, honey?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay.”

The mattress creaked slightly as Craig rose to his feet, careful not to fall on his face. He peeled star after star from the sheet until all nine spanned the ceiling, one of them just a little bigger and brighter than the others.

“Remember which star that is?” Craig asked as he settled right back down, pulling his boyfriend in next to him.

“It’s...Deneb, right? Or is this one Altair?”

“Yea, it’s Deneb.”

“You always loved attention to detail with these,” Tweek laughed, resting his head atop Craig’s left shoulder. “...hey, Craig?”

“Yea?”

“I...I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted.”

He could hear Craig’s breathing hitch all over again, sudden and terrified. He hadn’t needed any further elaboration to know exactly what Tweek meant, and even so he hesitated.

“...you’re sure?”

“Mhm...I’m sorry.”

Tweek curled into Craig’s embrace, wrapping his own arms around his boyfriend in the most consolation he could provide. They both knew they couldn’t stall anymore. 

“It’s okay,” Tweek said, pulling back just a bit so he could meet Craig’s eyes. He lifted a hand to his face, his thumb brushing away the tears spilling from those pretty blue eyes, before offering the most convincing smile that he could. “We made a promise. We’re strong. We can keep it.”

He planted a kiss on Craig’s cheek and relaxed against his boyfriend’s chest, his eyelids falling and the tension in his every motion dissipating. The sound of his heartbeat was rhythmic and calming, so much more relaxed than the typical frenzy of his own, and Tweek knew there was nothing else he’d want to spend his last moments hearing.

“I love you,” he heard Craig say, and then he couldn’t stop saying it. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—“

The cold barrel of the handgun against his temple was a welcome contrast to the warmth of his forehead. All of the sickness and dizziness and nausea that whirled in his brain and body fell silent, mitigated by the knowledge that it’d all be gone in just a few seconds.

There was an agonized wail and a  _ click _ , and he didn’t even realize that he’d fallen asleep.

Only this time, he didn’t wake up.

—

_ Their fingers twined together in the darkness as Craig pinned glow-in-the-dark stars to the shadow-wrapped walls, the faint green glimmers serving as tiny beacons amidst the duskiness. A tiny galaxy of mimicked constellations always followed their every step throughout the apocalypse, the plastic stars serving as memoirs of the places they’d been— as proof that regardless of what happened, they had been alive. _

_ That they were here. _

_ This one was Aquila, the eagle— a broad spanning series of eleven stars, replicated by sticky glowing material cut into five-point stars. Craig was insistent on marking each place they stayed the night with the next constellation in alphabetical order. This was their fifth makeshift home, not counting the times they’d spent the night in Craig’s car, because Stan and Kyle weren’t fond of how poorly the stars clung to the roof of the interior and how often they fell on them when they were trying to sleep. _

_ “Four out of eighty-eight,” Craig said as he finished sticking down the last star. “I hope we have enough of these things to get us through them all.” He gestured to the several packages of decorative stars, from the ones he’d owned originally to the ones they’d stolen from random store shelves. _

_ “I hope we live to  _ see _ eighty-eight,” Tweek sighed back, his expression downcast. _

_ “We might and we might not, but that doesn’t matter— we can make it as far as Sagittarius or only last to Auriga, but all we need to worry about is staying together.” _

_ “Till the end?” _

_ “Just as promised, babe. Until we supernova.” _

_ “You and your astronomy metaphors. You’re such a dork!” _

_ “You love me anyways.” _

_ “True, but holy shit.” _

_ “Hey, English never was my best subject.” _

—

Just because you had planned for something didn’t mean you ever really wanted to do it, and just because you’d promised something didn’t mean you really wanted to keep it.

Pulling that trigger had been the most difficult thing Craig had ever had to do— more difficult than the time he officially came out and told his friends that he  _ was _ gay, more difficult than all of the fights and the times he’d had to admit that he was wrong, just as difficult as running into his house weeks after the apocalypse started and finding no trace of Tricia or Stripe #4 or his parents or anyone. Even though he knew it was better than making Tweek wait on sickness setting in, better than watching Tweek suffer, there was that tiny selfish voice that just told him to wait anyway and save himself the heartbreak.

As always, he’d had to push that voice away, no matter how much he wanted to listen to it. No matter how much his heart hurt now.

Their temporary home was wrapped up in quiet— Stan and Kyle long-asleep, probably too exhausted to start awake to the distant sound of a gunshot. Perhaps that was for the better. Craig would hate to have to explain why he was holding a gun to his own head, and he’d hate even more to have to deal with them telling him not to go through with it, as if they figured their own pleading was stronger than the promise he’d made to Tweek. It wouldn’t stop him, but it’d be one hell of an inconvenience.

All he could do was sigh, waiting for the redness accumulating under his eyelids to go away, waiting for the tears that lingered on his face to evaporate. If there was one thing Craig very rarely did, it was cry— at least when there was a witness. Usually, when he was sad, all he did was lay down and stare at the ceiling and wait for the black hole in his heart to go away. 

Over the entire duration of his life, the only people who had ever seen him cry were Tweek and his family, and even then he always tried to stop himself. But when he knew that it was futile to even bother, he knew that they were safe to fall apart in front of, no matter what was eating at him.

The black hole in his chest didn’t want to go away this time, though, and he knew it wasn’t going to. It had been there since he’d staggered into his own home and turned the place upside down looking for evidence that his family was alive, only to find nothing but abandoned fragments of the world before it fell apart. The only thing that kept that black hole small and manageable was Tweek, and now even he was gone.

Luckily, he wasn’t going to have to deal with the black hole for much longer.

Reluctantly, Craig rose to his feet from his spot on the bed and knelt beside Tweek’s backpack and his own borrowed messenger bag, making sure he removed the packages of stars but left everything else in place. Kyle and Stan could keep all of the basic survival things they’d been carting along since the beginning, but he wanted to keep the pieces of their plastic galaxy. The number of stars left were dwindling anyway.

He dragged both bags out into the hallway and set them up against the wall, before going to place his baseball bat and Tweek’s fire axe right next to them. They were quiet and practical weapons, ones that didn’t attract too many undead ears, and they’d serve as decent substitutes for the roar of a chainsaw or the crack of a shotgun when Stan and Kyle couldn’t afford to invite any more walkers to their doorstep.

Craig cursed under his breath when he realized he didn’t have any paper on hand, nor did he have a pen, which meant he was going to have to go and find some and simply pray that he didn’t awaken the other two. He slipped out the door and down the hallway, peering into the rooms on the way in hopes of finding at least a makeshift set of writing supplies.

A few rooms down, he found his answer. A mahogany desk was nestled away in the corner of one of the bedrooms, several papers and pencils and pens abandoned on its surface. Hell, there was even a roll of tape inside the drawer. Craig snatched a pen and one of the few empty scraps of paper, took a few moments to scribble down his last few notes, and plucked a piece of tape away and headed right back to the bedroom he and Tweek had made into their last little piece of the Milky Way. Once he pinned up his letter, he walked straight through the doorway and let the white-wood door close behind him.

A part of him considered waiting some more— spending a few moments pinning up more glow-in-the-dark stars until the last few sheets were empty, replicating what he could of the night sky before he had to bid the world farewell. The other, more rational part of him told him to stop stalling and just pick up the gun.

The irrational side won, of course. 

He stuck a few more stars up on the ceiling, his memory serving as the only guide he needed to mimic more constellations. Cygnus was joined by Lyra and Aquila, and even though it felt like cheating the chart of their survival, he supposed it didn’t really matter now. When all of the packages were emptied, five new constellations ornamented the walls and ceiling, each one of them a favorite of Tweek’s— from Canis Minor to Horologium, Cygnus to Lyra, Aquila to Leo. A half-finished Aquarius lingered to the side.

Craig took a second to smile at his work, to take pride in the memoir he’d devised, before his hand curled around the handgun he’d left on their nightstand. Then he settled back down on the bed and let his hand find Tweek’s in the dim light. He nearly choked on his own breathing when he felt the lack of a pulse, when Tweek’s fingers didn’t close around his like they always did, but he didn’t let go regardless. He inhaled sharply and set the barrel to his temple.

There was another ear-shattering  _ click _ , and then the world went dark.

—

_ Kyle & Stan, _

_ Something I’ve always absolutely fucking hated about movies where someone dies is the overdramatic last word spiel that bad directors assume will grab them the Oscar their movie isn’t worthy of. It’s always so cheesy and unrealistic, and honestly, whenever shit like that happens, I either cringe and wait for it to end or I skip right through that part. (Besides, I think it’s sadder when the person dying never gets to say their last goodbye.) _

_ I still hate those scenes, but I think a part of me understands it all now that I have to do it myself. _

_ You both already know that Tweek is gone. We all saw what happened and we all knew that this was going to be the last midnight he ever got to see. What you didn’t know was that he and I had a pact. If he dies, I die, and vice versa. I’m not allowed to leave the earth without him, and he’s not allowed to leave it without me. If he got bitten, he was supposed to bite me too, and then we’d be biters together. But he told me he didn’t want to put you guys at risk and become a shell of who he was, and so...yea. _

_ I’ll just say this honestly. You two are assholes and a part of me is still sure you had something to do with all of this. But you’re not as bad as I thought you were, and we survived together for a long time. You’re still total dicks though. Rude? Yea. I’m not writing this to kiss your asses. I’m writing it so you guys know where to go from here. _

_ Tweek wrote down some instructions on hotwiring on another piece of paper, so you guys can still use the car. When you guys get back to South Park and find my sister and Kenny and the guys, I want you two to tell them that Tweek and I won’t be seeing them again. Then I want you to tell Clyde and Jimmy and Token that even though I wanted to sock them sometimes, that they were the best friends I could have ever asked for and I hope they make it through this mess. Tell Patricia that even though she’s kind of a fucking gremlin that she’s still my little sister and that I loved her, and tell her thank you from me to make up for all the times I forgot to. She’ll understand what you mean. _

_ As for you two? I hope you get out of this also. Dicks you may be, but again, I don’t think you’re all bad and I definitely don’t think you should die. If anyone can solve this mess, it’s you. I left our stuff in the hallway. The handgun should be in my hand behind this door. It’s up to you if you want to come and get it. I get it if you’d rather not. _

_ I’m running out of paper and of things to say, and I think I may as well give up on trying to make this sound aloof and not sappy. I’ve never been all too good with metaphors and shit, but there’s one thing I want this world to remember: _

_ Tweek Tweak and Craig Tucker were here. We lived until we didn’t, and we were the two brightest, most fucked-up stars in the Milky Way. But stars sleep when the sun rises, and this dawn will last forever. Even so, we’ll exist in star charts and astronomy books, and we’ll never truly be gone. _

_ I still suck at metaphors, but I think Tweek would’ve been proud of that one. _

_ -Craig _

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Craig of the Dead AU by @craigenthusiast.
> 
> I think I have some fixation with killing these two off, but I couldn't resist when I read about the pact these two have in said AU. I love the relationship between these boys and I just hope I did it justice.


End file.
